Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (115 page)

G
ABRIEL EASED AWAY
from Antonella Huber’s villa through the gathering darkness, accompanied by the savage barking of the Belgian shepherds. Chiara sat next to him, clutching the letter. At the bottom of the hill, he turned onto a two-lane highway and headed west toward Grasse. The day’s last light lay on the ridgeline of the distant hills like a scarlet wound.

Five minutes later, he noticed the dark gray Fiat sedan. The man behind the wheel was too careful. He stayed in his own lane at all times, and even when Gabriel allowed his speed to dip well below the limit, the Fiat remained several car-lengths off his rear bumper. No, thought Gabriel, this is not your average suicidal Frenchman behind the wheel.

He followed the highway into Grasse, then turned down the hill, into the old town center. It had been taken over long ago by Middle Eastern immigrants, and for a moment Gabriel might have imagined he was in Algiers or Marrakech.

“Put away the letter.”

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re being followed.”

Gabriel made a series of quick turns and accelerations.

“Is he still there?”

“Still there.”

“What do we do?”

“Take him for a ride.”

Gabriel left the old town and made his way back up the hill to the main highway, the Fiat following closely behind. He sped through the center of town, then turned onto the N85, a highway that runs from Grasse high into the Maritime Alps. Ten seconds later the Fiat swerved into his rearview mirror. Gabriel pressed the accelerator to the floor and pushed the Peugeot hard up the steep grade.

Grasse gradually fell away. The road was winding, full of switchbacks and hairpin turns. To their right rose the scrub-covered slope of the mountain; to their left, a deep gorge, falling away toward the sea. The Peugeot had less power than Gabriel would have liked, and no matter how hard he pushed it, the Fiat sedan easily kept pace. Whenever a straight section of road stretched before him, he would lift his eyes into the rearview mirror and check on the Fiat: always there, a few car-lengths back. Once, he thought he could see the driver talking on a mobile phone.
Who do you work for? Who are you calling? And how in the hell did you find us?
Antonella Huber… They’d killed her mother. They probably had a man watching the villa.

Ten minutes later, the village of St-Vallier appeared before them, quiet and tightly shuttered. Gabriel pulled over in the center of town, next to a small square, and traded places with Chiara. The Fiat parked on the opposite side of the square and waited. Gabriel told
Chiara to take the D5 toward St-Cézaire, then he took out the Beretta nine-millimeter he’d been given by Shimon Pazner in Rome. The Fiat followed after them.

It was a long descent, winding and difficult in some sections, straight and fast in others. Chiara drove the same way she’d handled the motor yacht, with skill and a certain easy confidence that Gabriel couldn’t help but find attractive.

“Did you take the defensive driving classes at the Academy?”

“Of course.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“Number one in my group.”

“Show me.”

She downshifted and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The Peugeot shot forward, engine screaming. She stayed in that gear, foot to the floor, until the needle topped the red zone, then power-shifted. Gabriel looked over at the speedometer and saw it inching toward 180 kilometers per hour. Her rapid acceleration seemed to catch the driver of the Fiat by surprise, but he recovered quickly and soon was sitting in his usual place, twenty meters off their rear bumper.

“Our friend is back.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Make him work. I want his nerves on edge.”

During a long downhill straightaway, Chiara pushed the Peugeot above two hundred. Then she entered a winding section, expertly downshifting and breaking in and out of the turns. Obviously, she had learned her lessons well at the Academy. The man in the Fiat was having trouble keeping pace. Twice, he nearly lost control in the turns.

At the rate of speed they were traveling, it did not take long to reach St-Cézaire. It was a medieval town,
walled in places and split in half by the D5. Chiara slowed. Gabriel shouted at her to go faster.

“What if someone crosses the fucking road?”

“I don’t care! Go faster, damn it!”

“Gabriel!”

They flashed through the darkened town in a blur. The driver of the Fiat did not have the courage to follow their lead, and slowed as he passed through the town. As a result, he emerged trailing them by some three hundred meters.

“That was fucking insane. We could have killed someone.”

“Don’t let him get any closer.”

The road became a four-lane highway. On their left was a large nature area, famous for its caves and grottoes, and in the distance was a ridge of stark mountains, visible in the bright moonlight.

“Turn there!”

Chiara slammed on the brakes, throwing the Peugeot into a power slide. Then she simultaneously downshifted and hit the accelerator, sending them careening along a dirt track. Gabriel turned around and took another long look over his shoulder. The Fiat had made the turn and was racing after them.

“Kill the lights.”

“I won’t be able to see.”

“Kill them now!”

She switched off the lights and instinctively eased off the gas, but Gabriel shouted at her to go faster, and soon they were plunging through the luminous glow of the moonlight. They entered a grove of scrub oak and umbrella pine. The track hooked sharply to the right. The headlights of the Fiat were nowhere to be seen.

“Stop!”

“Here?

“Stop!”

She slammed on the brakes. Gabriel threw open the door. The air was filled with a choking dust. “Keep going,” he said, then leapt out and slammed the door shut.

Chiara did as she was told, continuing in the direction of the mountain ridge. A few seconds later, Gabriel could hear the Fiat speeding toward his position. He stepped off the track and knelt behind an oak, the Beretta in his outstretched hands. As the Fiat came hurtling around the corner, Gabriel fired several shots into the tires.

At least two exploded. The Fiat instantly lost control, bucking and fishtailing, before the centrifugal force of the turn threw it into a violent leftward roll. Gabriel lost count of how many times the car flipped over; a half-dozen at least, perhaps more. He rose to his feet and slowly walked toward the crumpled mass of steel, the Beretta at his side. Somewhere, a mobile phone was ringing.

He found the Fiat wheels-up, resting on its smashed roof. Bending down, he peered through a shattered window and saw the driver, lying on what was once the ceiling. His legs were twisted grotesquely, his chest crushed and bleeding severely. Still, he was conscious, and his hand seemed to be reaching for a gun lying a few inches beyond his fingertips. The eyes were focused, but the hand would not obey the commands of his brain. His neck was snapped, and he didn’t realize it.

Finally, his eyes left the gun and settled on Gabriel.

“You were a fool to chase us like that,” Gabriel said softly. “You’re an amateur. Your boss sent you on a suicide mission. Who’s your boss? He’s the man who did this to you, not me.”

The man managed little more than a gurgle. He was
looking at Gabriel but his gaze was somewhere else. He did not have long to live.

“You’re not hurt too badly,” Gabriel said gently. “Some cuts and scrapes. Maybe a broken bone or two. Tell me who you’re working for, so I can call an ambulance.”

The man’s lips parted, and he emitted a sound. Gabriel leaned close so he could hear.

“Casszzzz… Cassszzzzzz… . Zzzzzzz… .”

“Casagrande? Carlo Casagrande? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Cassszzzzzz… . zzzzzzz… .”

Gabriel reached inside the dying man’s jacket and gently patted around until he found a wallet. It was soaked with blood. As he dropped it into his pocket, he could hear the telephone ringing again. It had ended up somewhere in the backseat, by the sound of it. He peered through the opening where the rear window had once been and saw the phone, power light aglow, lying on the ground beneath the trunk. He stretched out his hand and took hold of it. Then he pressed the SEND button and brought it to his ear.

“Pronto.”

“What’s going on up there? Where is he?”

“He’s right here,” Gabriel said calmly in Italian. “In fact, he’s speaking with you right now.”

Silence.

“I know what happened in that convent,” Gabriel said. “I know about Crux Vera. I know that you killed my friend. Now, I’m coming for you.”

“Where’s my man?”

“He’s not doing so well at the moment. Would you like a word with him?”

Gabriel placed the telephone on the ground a few inches from the dying man’s mouth. As he stood up, he
could see the lights of the Peugeot bouncing toward him along the track. Chiara braked to a halt a few yards from where he was standing. Walking back to the car, Gabriel could hear only one sound.

“Casszzzz… Cassszzzzz… Zzzzzzzz… .”

24
ST-CÉZAIRE, PROVENCE

G
ABRIEL SEARCHED
the dead man’s wallet by the jade-colored glow of the dashboard lights. He found no driver’s license and no formal identification of any kind. Finally, he discovered a business card, folded in half and tucked behind a photograph of a girl in a sleeveless dress. It was so old he had to switch on the overhead light in order to make out the faded name:
PAULO OLIVERO
,
UFFICIO SICUREZZA DI VATICANO
. He held it aloft for Chiara to see. She glanced at it, then returned her eyes to the road.

“What does it say?”

“That there’s a high probability the man I just killed was a Vatican cop.”

“Great.”

Gabriel memorized the telephone number on the card, then tore it to shreds and flicked it out the window. They came to the
autoroute.
When Chiara slowed for guidance, Gabriel directed her west, toward Aixen-Provence. She lit a cigarette with the dashboard lighter. Her hand was shaking.

“Would you like to tell me where we’re going next?”

“Out of Provence as quickly as possible,” he said. “After that, I haven’t decided.”

“Am I allowed to offer an opinion?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“It’s time to go home. You know what happened at the convent, and you know who killed Benjamin. There’s nothing else you can do but dig yourself deeper into a hole.”

“There’s more,” Gabriel said. “There has to be more.”

“What are you talking about?”

He stared absently out his window. The landscape was stark and windswept, red dust in the air. He saw none of it. Instead, he saw Mother Vincenza, sitting on the very spot where Martin Luther and Bishop Lorenzi had sealed their contract of murder, telling him that Benjamin had come to the Convent of the Sacred Heart to hear about the Jews that had taken refuge there. He saw Alessio Rossi, stinking of fear, fingernails gnawed to the quick, telling him how Carlo Casagrande had forced him to abort his investigation of missing priests. He saw Sister Regina Carcassi, listening to Luther and Lorenzi calmly discuss why Pope Pius XII should remain silent in the face of genocide, while a child slept with his head in her lap, a rosary wrapped around his hand.

And finally he saw Benjamin, a boy of twenty, myopic and round-shouldered, brilliant and destined for academic greatness. He had wanted to be a part of the Wrath of God team as badly as Gabriel had wanted to be released from it. Indeed, Benjamin had wanted to be an
aleph,
an assassin, but his methodical brain did not leave him with the skills necessary to point a Beretta at a man’s face in a darkened alley and pull the trigger. It did give him all the tools necessary to be a brilliant support agent, and never once did he make an error—even at the end, when Black September and the European
security services were breathing down their necks. This was the Benjamin Gabriel saw now, the Benjamin who would never stake his reputation on the word of a single source or document, no matter how compelling.

“Benjamin wouldn’t have written a book implicating the Catholic Church in the Holocaust based only on Sister Regina’s letter. He must have had something else.”

Chiara swung to the side of the
autoroute
and applied the brakes.

“So?”

“I worked with Benjamin in the field. I know how he thought, how his mind worked. He was careful to a fault. He had backup plans for his backup plans. Benjamin knew the book would be explosive. That’s why he kept the contents so secret. He would have hidden copies of his important material in places his enemies wouldn’t think to look.” Gabriel hesitated, then added: “But places his friends
would
think to look.”

Chiara stuffed her cigarette into the ashtray. “When I was at the Academy, we were taught how to walk into a room and find a hundred places to conceal something. Documents, weapons, anything at all.”

“Benjamin and I did the course together.”

“So where are we going?”

Gabriel lifted his hand and pointed straight ahead.

THEY DROVE
in shifts, roughly two hours on, two hours off. Chiara managed to sleep during her rest periods, but Gabriel lay awake, the seat reclined, hands behind his head, staring up through the tinted glass of the moon roof. He passed the hours by mentally searching Benjamin’s apartment for a second time. He opened books and desk drawers, closets and file cabinets. He planned expeditions into uncharted regions.

Dawn arrived, gray and forbidding, now a siege of torrential rain, now an avalanche of biting Rhone Valley wind. It never seemed to get properly light, and the headlights of the Peugeot stayed on all morning. At the German border, Gabriel felt a sudden fever when the guard seemed to take an extra moment scrutinizing the false Canadian passport that Pazner had given him in Rome.

They sped across a plain of sodden Swabian farmland, keeping pace with the high-speed traffic on the autobahn. In a town called Memmingen, Gabriel stopped for gas. Not far away was a shopping center with a small department store. He sent Chiara inside with a list. He fared better than he had in Cannes: two pairs of gray trousers, two button-down shirts, a black pullover sweater, a pair of black crepe-soled shoes, a quilted nylon raincoat. A second bag contained two flashlights and a pack of batteries, along with screwdrivers, pliers, and wrenches.